


homewarming

by batofgoodintent (crownedcrusader)



Series: moments starting with home [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: :(, Anxiety Attacks, Gen, Multi, Nightmares, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Sleep Deprivation, a mention or two of Jasons Food Issues (tm), ambiguously joyfire, but buddy do u know how hard it is to actually stay tru to a single dc timeline, im probably mixing a few canons tbh, like the fact that ?? apparently ?? n52 jason was only robin for one year ?, one hecking year?, there are some things that just dont add up in n52 so u gotta borrow it from other timelines, they care about jason so much ok just they care about him so damn much, wtf @ dc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-24
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-08-10 17:08:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7853755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownedcrusader/pseuds/batofgoodintent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jason's not very good at taking care of himself. Or, y'know, sleeping. And he's pretty sure he's starting to worry Roy and Kori. </p><p>But sometimes Jason isn't sure where his mind ends and the Lazarus Pit begins. He's not sure how much of his sleep deprivation is from being raised by the Bat, how much is not wanting to have nightmares, and how much is the Pit influencing his brain chemistry. --And that last one? That's a scary thought. Scarier than any of the nightmares he has when he actually tries to sleep. </p><p>But hey. When have Jason's nightmares ever been scarier than his actual life?</p>
            </blockquote>





	homewarming

**Author's Note:**

> during RHatO there's a scene where the Joker paints acid into Jason's Red Hood mask, and what happens afterwards ...and it's mentioned that Jason just kind of doesn't sleep if he can help it. And I'm like, okay, thats angsty, but somehow he's also highly functioning, and that made me wonder, like, okay, does it have something to do with the Pit? aaaand then this fic was born.

Jason didn’t sleep much.

He was sure he had slept plenty when he was a kid (way back when his mom was alive), but like all good things from his childhood, it _quickly_ came to an end. And sleep? Not really a luxury the streets could provide—not when he constantly had to watch his back. When Jason came to live at Wayne Manor, he'd kind of expected a decent night's sleep now that, y'know, no one would be trying to steal from him while he slept. But, no. As soon as he was Robin, (and despite Alfred's protests), a good night's sleep was just a happy daydream.

But hey. At least he got to sleep when he was dead, right?

Though considering how rarely he slept _now_ —and how often nightmares forced him out of his sleep—he was pretty much a walking miracle.

Especially since there were so few side-effects to his sleep deprivation.

Jason wondered, sometimes, if he’d be looking a gift-horse in the mouth to ask what the _fuck_ the Lazarus Pit had done to his head. Because the Pit had a history of altering people—of making them go off-the-rails mental.

And unlike the people who used the Pit to get _physically_ healed, Jason had taken a dip to heal his _mind_.

(Pushed, more like. But hey, he was already alive without explanation— _don’tthinkofthecoffin, don’tthinkofdiggingyourselfout_ —so Jason couldn’t really blame Talia for getting desperate.)

Jason was no scientist, but he was pretty damn sure the Pit worked differently to heal different things. There were precedents, anyways. Ways that it _seemed_ to work. An injured person? Healed but violent and dangerous for a few weeks. Someone on the verge of death, but not dead yet? More violent, and for longer. Ra’s al Ghul, taking a dip to stay young? Creepy and sociopathic, but not too different.

And then there was Jason.

Alive and uninjured, but a damn near vegetable before he took a Pit-bath.

Scientifically, it was _impossible_ to restore his brain to a mostly-there state (because if Jason was being honest, he never felt all the way ‘there’). Oxygen deprivation destroyed brain cells forever, and Jason’s brain was no different.

So if the Pit was going to heal him, it had to _replace_ some things. And that was a scary thought, knowing that the Pit had replaced part of his mind.

(Skin cells were one thing; skin and muscle and tissue. Who _cared_ if an arm worked the exact same way as long as it was back? An open wound, a leg, a heart—what did it _matter_ if they were healed with foreign substances?

But a brain was _different_.

A brain had memories and personality the closest damn thing to a _soul_ that science could prove.

Maybe he didn’t have one of those anymore. Maybe Talia would have been better off leaving him a vegetable. Maybe she should have just killed him or left him in Gotham to rot.)

 

Jason wasn’t mad that he had a second chance—but sometimes he wondered if it was really _Jason_ getting a second chance, or if he, the person inhabiting his body, was someone else entirely.

Was he still Jason if he was this violent? This angry? This vindictive?

Was he still Jason with Pit-juice holding his mind together?

Part of him knew that yeah, he was _mostly_ himself.

( _Maybeprobablymaybenot_.)

But the Pit changed people. Even people who were healed from a non-brain injury were unhinged afterwards. And Jason? The guy who was put into the Pit _for_ his brain?

Yeah, sometimes it was hard to wonder how much of him was Jason and how much was the Pit. (And how much was Talia’s training, and how much was Ducra’s, and how much was Bruce’s and how much of his brain had been completely _beaten out by the Joker_ —)

It bothered him.

Some days more than others.

Some days he could wake up and save someone and think, _yeah, I’m doing okay at this whole Hero thing even **without** B_ ,

And other days his fingers twitched for a gun and he wasn’t sure if it was vengeance or self-preservation or anger or Talia or Bruce or the Pit.

But the nights?

As bad as they were, at least they were all the same.

 

So, yeah, Jason didn’t sleep much. And it didn’t have much of an effect on him. It didn’t seem to slow him down like it did with other people. Didn’t make him tired like it made pre-Pit Jason tired.

Sometimes Jason could pretend that he was just stressed, that he was just working on a project late at night. Sometimes Jason almost believed it. He’d spend those nights alone from dusk till dawn; thinking, reflecting, meditating—anything to give him emotional rest when he couldn’t get it mentally or physically.

He liked those nights best.

But other nights, Jason wasn’t alone. Sometimes Roy and Kori would wake up and find him up at midnight, at two, at four. Sometimes Jason would be drinking coffee and modifying a mission plan. Maybe making something to eat because a need for food was one thing the Lazarus Pit didn’t take from him.

Sometimes he’d be brooding. Angry. Violent. Sometimes he’d take his anger out on a punching bag and other gym equipment and break things and he wouldn’t even realize he was doing it ‘till Roy and Kori entered the room and restrained him.

Other times he wouldn’t even realize he was awake.

He’d just be staring out into the night, eyes open and unseeing. Those times, he didn’t remember Roy and Kori—just the endless open sea, and coming out of the trance in his bedroom.

(Those ones were the scariest nights. Because what if the Lazarus Pit wasn’t permanent, what if he’d go back to that vegetative state, what if he’d hurt someone, what if he _killed_ someone, what if—)

 

But tonight hadn’t been a staring night.

It wasn’t a violent night, either. Or a planning night or a stressed night.

Jason had, for once, gone to bed of his own volition—mostly. Kori was at his left and Roy was at his right, and for once in his after-death life he felt warm and safe and wanted.

But it was times like these that he remembered _why_ he hated sleeping.

And why he hated sleeping around others.

 

(Roy and Kori’s intentions were sweet. They really were. They’d seen how slow and clumsy and out-of-it he’d been lately. Jason hardly recognized the sensation, but he’d been pulling all-nighters for two weeks and even if he didn’t need sleep the same way the Roy and Kori did, surely it had to have some strain on him.

He’d been avoiding sleep to avoid the nightmares, mostly.

But they’d offered a movie, and then they’d insisted on watching it in bed, and then Roy had plopped down on his right and Kori on his left, and, well.

Jason was a goner after only ten minutes.)

 

Jason didn’t always have bad dreams.

Usually, but not always.

Most of the time, even the worst of them started off innocently.

So Jason wandered down hallway after hallway, reality blurring as alleyways turned into Wayne Manor turned into the warehouse turned into a huge cavern turned into more alleyways turned into the ship.

It wasn’t a bad dream. Weird, maybe. Abstract. But not bad.

Not yet.

No sooner than Jason had adjusted to the peace and quiet, though, did it take a turn for the worst. Joker playing cards appeared in the warehouse first, becoming more and more common as he continued his trek onwards.

In his sleep, he couldn’t remember why the cards were bad, but they made his skin crawl nonetheless.

They started appearing more frequently after that, especially once his heart-rate started to pick up. Jason was scared, and his subconscious accommodated him accordingly. The cards soon came flooding into Jason’s walkway ‘till he couldn’t avoid stepping on them—

And then, till he was ankle deep in them—

And then, till he was barely able to walk through the knee-high piles—

The level rose to his neck,

To his lips,

To his ears—

 

He woke up before he could be completely buried alive.

It was too late for his heart, though. It felt ready to burst, racing faster and faster even after he woke up, forcing him to hyperventilate for his breathing to keep up. Panic had already seized his limbs, and unlike in his dream, nothing was stopping him from kicking and screaming and pushing away anything that touched his skin.

 

It wasn’t even the worst dream he’d had.

 

And it was nowhere near as bad as what he’d lived through. Compared to some of the shit he’d seen, this thing was damn near _tame_.

But it was still _bad_. The terror was still there.

Even if was drowning—but smoke inhalation was soclosetodrowning—rather than being beaten and blown up with thick smoke building up in his lungs—

It was still dying.

And Jason’s body reacted accordingly.

He didn’t remember sitting up, didn’t remember getting poised to fight. He didn’t remember why Roy and Kori were on either side of him trying to hold him back and calm him.

But it didn’t take a genius to figure out what had happened.

His body remained in a fight-or-flight (panickedpanicked _panicked_ ) state for a while longer, but Ducra had taught him how to shut that instinct off. So he channeled her, forced himself to breathe slowly and deeply till the hyperventilating stopped, till his mind was calm and in his own control.

Once he was lying back down, Roy and Kori had calmed down, too, though it seemed they were more exhausted than terrified.

Jason wondered how often this happened to them—if it happened to them at all.

Roy had seen a _lot_ of shit, but nothing to Jason’s level. If he had nightmares or night terrors, Jason doubted they were nearly this bad. And as for Kori, Tamaran psychology was _very_ different to human psychology. Jason wasn’t even sure if Tamarans _got_ nightmares.

He hoped they didn’t. He hoped neither of them had to deal with nightmares this bad.

But even if they did, there was nothing Jason could do to help them—not now, and not with his breathing as rapid and panicked as it was.

Once their—all three of their—breathing had leveled out, Jason slowly—slowlyslowlyslowly—sat back up.

“Sorry for—for… _about_ all of that,” he said, voice flat and level, even as his vocabulary dwindled. Because if he didn’t keep control of his emotions, if he didn’t keep himself in check, then what if he got angry, what if he lost control of his temper again, what if he hurt—

Kori pulled him into a fierce hug before he could overthink. “Do not apologize,” she said. “You could not control it—you did not mean to attack us while we were sleeping. _You_ were sleeping also, yes?”

It only took half a second for Jason to pull out of Kori’s embrace, but his heart-rate had already spiked again. He knew she meant well, but being restrained after a nightmare about drowning—even if he was only restrained in a _hug_ —was kind of…

Jason ran a hand down the side of his face, forcing back a grimace. “Yeah. Still, uh.” He took a deep breath, unable to suppress a flicker of panic when his hand brushed against a tag on the bedsheets. (Just a tag, not a card, _justatag, notacard_.) “I—this is—I’ll go back to my own bed. Thanks for the movie. Sorry for waking you guys.”

Jason closed his eyes, ignoring the image of joker cards imprinted onto his retinas. Once he was sure he wouldn’t have an anxiety attack—because yeah, no, he didn’t want to hyperventilate twice in five minutes, thanks—he slowly slid his legs out of the tangled sheets.

Standing made him feel light-headed, but he’d dealt with worse. So he took a deep breath and didn’t slow down, continuing forward until he came to the door.

Jason only stopped because, when he got to it, he still couldn’t see. He didn’t know if it was open or closed, didn’t know if he’d reach out and find a wooden panel and a doorknob or open air.

He _hated_ that he couldn’t see.

Hated the dark.

Hated the rush of light-headedness, the feeling of bleeding out from internal injuries, the way it reminded him of that vegetative state—

Jason’s hand trembled as he finally, tentatively reached out.

Before he knew it, his fingertips brushed wood, and Jason whipped his hand back as if he’d been burned.

Because wasn’t _that_ a cheerful memory? His fingertips on wood, tracing the mahogany and praying that he could break through it before his hands eroded into nothing—praying that this was all a sick joke—praying that Bruce would hear him, damn it, that someone would hear him, that he wouldn’t be stuck buried six feet under for the rest of his life—

Before he knew it he was on his knees and forcing himself to take slow, deep breaths again. Try as he might, he was _struggling,_ he was _panicking, hyperventilating_ —

And _damn it all_ , why did it have to be in front of _Roy and Kori_?

They were next to him when he finally gained control of his senses. The wall was metal, not wood—cool and smooth and solid against his cheek, and he forced himself to focus on the sensation of the metal grain against his skin. He couldn’t remember leaning against it. Maybe he’d been moved, maybe he’d moved himself, but he was happy where he was.

Jason took a breath, held it for thirty seconds, then slowly breathed it out.

When he opened his eyes, Roy and Kori were kneeling next to him.

This time, Roy was the first one to speak.

(And Jason didn’t want to think about how Roy was using the same damn soothing voice he used on little kids and trauma victims—didn’t want to think about how Roy had probably learned it from Green Arrow—didn’t want to think about how Jason himself had been taught by Bruce, and—)

“Jason,” Roy said, voice soft and even. “Look at me. That’s it. Deep breaths, keep doing what you’re doing. Do you know where you are?”

All Jason could manage was a hoarse, “ _Fuck off_.”

But he kept his breathing slow and deep and even. Not for Roy— _damn_ Roy—but because it was what he needed to do. 

“You’re in Kori’s ship,” Roy said anyways. “In Kori and I’s room. Do you want to go somewhere else, Jason?” When Jason didn’t answer, Roy leaned a little closer. “Jason. We can help you somewhere else if you want. You just need to ask. But I won’t touch you without your permission.”

“Not that kind of trauma,” Jason muttered. (He swallowed down the hesitation there, the wondering if maybe _those_ repressed memories were gonna try and make an appearance tonight, too.) “Just… just a damn nightmare, Roy, okay? I want to eat something and go the fuck back to sleep.”

Only about one third of that sentence was true. Because Jason was fooling no one if he claimed it was just a nightmare (a damn _night terror_ ), and the last thing he wanted to do was to go back to sleep for the night.

But yeah, he did want to eat something. He was fucking starving. And honestly even if he wasn’t, the sight of food was _always_ reassuring. Even if it was just a reminder that hey, _you’re not a little kid starving on the streets anymore!_ Not that the rest of his life was all peaches and cream because damn, if he’d just quietly starved to death on the streets then maybe he wouldn’t have been beaten to death by the Joker.

Not that Jason really wanted to have died _either_ way.

He was glad he’d gotten a second chance, glad that he was alive.

But nights like these, he wondered if he’d ever really be able to just get over it. To really, truly move on.

He wondered if the Pit had replaced parts of his mind for good, or if it’d ever be wholly Jason’s again. If he’d ever feel the violent urges ebbing away. If he’d ever stop spacing out and coming back to broken furniture and bloody knuckles.

If he’d ever start needing to _sleep_ again.

It was the last thing he wanted right now, but he’d take it (and worse) if it meant the Pit would get out of his head already.

Jason closed his eyes again, hating the imprint of the nightmare in his head. Because it hadn’t even been that _bad_ of a nightmare—

But he’d been sleeping so rarely that he hadn’t had one in a while.

And yet, he’d slept _tonight_ because he was starting to feel foggy— _unbalanced_.

He hadn’t remembered it much before, because he was so out of it, but there was the faintest flicker of hope in Jason’s heart. He’d felt out of sorts in an old, unfamiliar way. _Exhausted_.

Not _physically_ , not from a strain on his muscles, but…

Maybe that was why Roy and Kori had asked him to watch a movie with them in their bed. Maybe that was why they’d pushed him into an obvious ploy to sleep. Maybe that was why they’d insisted on him sitting in the middle, sandwiched by their warmth so he’d be lulled to sleep all the faster.

Jason let out a slow, deep breath, and allowed himself to hope.

“I’m just… _tired_ ,” he said, testing out the word on his tongue. “Really tired.”

And even if going back to sleep was the last thing he wanted, there was something optimistic about feeling tired.

Because if he could feel tired, then that meant whatever the Pit had done to his mind was finally— _finallyfinallyfinally_ —wearing off.

Kori leaned forward and offered a hand. Either Roy had talked to her while Jason was trying to get control of himself again, or she’d figured it out, but she was being more patient with him than Jason deserved. It took a moment, but Jason gently took hold of her hand and allowed her to help him up.

“We can make you something to eat if you are hungry,” she said. “You usually feel better, don’t you?”

“Try _always_ ,” Roy said. His tone took on a slightly lighter tone as he realized Jason was feeling better. “What are you in the mood for, huh?”

Jason let out a non-commitant hum.

Roy wasn’t letting it go that easily. “Ice cream?” he prompted, “Spaghetti? Some shitty frozen microwave meal?” And despite his easygoing tone, he was gentle as he took hold of Jason’s other hand. Part of Jason felt a little irritated by all the manhandling, but he didn’t really feel steady on his feet, either, and being led forward was still better than being carried. “C’mon, I need some input, Jace. I solemnly swear your abs won’t suffer _too_ much.”

“Don’t really care right now,” Jason admitted. That fogginess was starting to descend once more, and as Kori and Roy led him to the couch and helped him into a sitting position, he felt a rare yawn coming on. “I’m just … tired. I can’t remember the last time I was this tired. Must’ve been before… y’know.”

If he’d ever really told them more about the Pit’s lingering effects and about not _needing_ to sleep, maybe Roy and Kori would have been happy for him. But as it was, they seemed concerned.

“Then maybe,” Kori said, “It’s time for you to go back to sleep, Jason. And heal.”

It was that kind of easy wisdom that reminded Jason who it was that got him back on track. As close as he was with Roy, and as much as his Bat-Family kept butting into his life whenever he was in Gotham…

It was Kori who had first given him the chance to move on.

“Maybe it is,” Jason said, a small, tired smile tugging at his lips. “Maybe it is.”

 

 

(Three AM reheated pizza was apparently _just_ what Jason needed. Though it did little to wake him up, it was already putting him back to sleep, and Jason found that he didn’t mind.

Because, _okay_ , Jason still didn’t like the idea of sleeping around other people.

He didn’t want to think about waking up from a night terror, didn’t want to think about disappointing Roy and Kori, didn’t want to think about the Pit having a hold on him and making him violent and unpredictable.

But on the cusp of sleep, he wasn’t nearly as picky.

Jason didn’t remember lying down, or moving to lay his head in Kori’s lap. He didn’t remember Roy hooking an arm around Jason’s waist and resting on top of his back. And he definitely didn’t remember giving Kori permission to run her fingers through his hair, or letting Roy get so comfortable against him.

But he was warm, and full, and _tired_.

And even if Jason wasn’t the old Jason anymore,

Even if the Pit would _always_ leave an imprint on his mind,

He couldn’t think of anywhere else he’d rather be, or anyone else he’d rather be with.)


End file.
